came in sight of the governor-general's palace, and thought they
saw unusual movement among the guards.

"Your escape must have been discovered," said Elias. "Lie down, senor,
so I can cover you with the zacate, for the sentinel at the magazine
may stop us."

As Elias had anticipated, the sentinel challenged him, and asked him
where he came from.

"From Manila, with zacate for the iodores and curates," said he,
imitating the accent of the people of Pandakan.

A sergeant came out.

"Sulung," said he to Elias, "I warn you not to take any one into your
boat. A prisoner has just escaped. If you capture him and bring him
to me, I will give you a fine reward."

"Good, senor; what is his description?"

"He wears a long coat, and speaks Spanish. Look out for him!"

The bark moved off. Elias turned and saw the sentinel still standing
by the bank.

"We shall lose a few minutes," he said; "we shall have to go into
the rio Beata, to make him think I'm from Pena Francia. You shall
see the rio of which Francisco Baltazar sang."

The pueblo was asleep in the moonlight. Crisostomo sat up to admire
the death-like peace of nature. The rio was narrow, and its banks were
plains strewn with zacate. Elias discharged his cargo, and from the
grass where they were hidden, drew some of those sacks of palm leaves
that are called bayones. Then they pushed off again, and soon were
back on the Pasig. From time to time they talked of indifferent things.

"Santa Ana!" said Ibarra, speaking low; "do you know that
building?" They were passing the country house of the Jesuits.

"I've spent many happy days there," said Elias. "When I was a child,
we came here every month. Then I was like other people; had a family,
a fortune; dreamed, thought I saw a future."

They were silent until they came to Malapad-na-bato. Those who have
sometimes cut a wake in the Pasig, on one of these magnificent nights
of the Philippines, when from the limpid azure the moon pours out a
poetic melancholy, when shadows hide the miseries of men and silence
puts out their sordid words--those who have done this will know some
of the thoughts of these two young men.

At Malapad-na-bato, the rifleman was sleepy, and seeing no hope of
plunder in the little bark, according to the tradition of his corps
and the habit of this post, he let it pass. The guard at Pasig was
no more disquieting.

The moonlight was growing pale, and dawn was beginning to tint the east
with r